Hugs

For me personally, there is something about a hug, whether receiving or initiating one of these warmth embracing that our arms allow us as I navigate emotions brought on by situations and circumstances. Let’s face it, “most” encounters and experiences we celebrate with family or friends are accompanied by a good, genuine hug. Most are brief while others may linger, especially when wrapped in sadness that comes with grief and sorrow. I’ve been thinking about hugs a lot lately, observing the benefits of this simple gesture that gives me contact with another human being.

Last week was hard for some folks in my church family. A married couple have been expecting the birth of twin boys in October. A few weeks ago mom was hospitalized with complications in the pregnancy and suddenly faced with the harsh reality that one of her babies died in her womb. Bravely, she carried both babes until their delivery last week. These precious parents shared their experience through social media posts–with photos–for the rest of us to stay informed. Mostly, they put up raw emotions that flooded them each day, complete with bittersweet photos of their boys after delivery. While one baby was in a NICU crib, the other was beautifully wrapped in a blanket and both dad and mom held him in their arms. I was later told that they were allowed two entire days with their deceased son. I can’t imagine…but I saw the hugs.

I felt the hugs of the young mother’s parents in church as I took a turn to wrap each one with one of my own. I witnessed countless others wait to give a heartfelt hug to these grieving grandparents. I saw love and concern in action. I was fortunate to give the father of these boys a hug, too. He was the one who initiated it with me. We held each other for an extended amount of time as I whispered “I’m so sorry” in his ear, followed by me telling him how much I admired the hospital for honoring the life of his little baby who did not survive the womb….and reflected on their own words in a post….”little Z____” is now with his Lord on his birthday…”  Yes, lots of hugs for this beautiful family here on earth and now to imagine, the Lord Himself embracing and hugging this precious little boy for all of eternity. I marvel at the image I am unable to create in my frail humanness….

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A remote memory of hugging loved ones still lingers in my mind’s photo album. Whenever we visited my grandparents, our parents taught us kids to give grandpa and grandma a hug goodbye. For me this came quite easy, for my older brothers–especially as they got to be teens–was awkward. When it came time to go home their once active bodies stiffened at the mere thought of having to hug our grandparents, but they did so. Years later, after we were grown and well into adulthood, we often remarked how much we missed that loving pair of Jewells who never turned down a hug, even if it was from an uneasy “too cool for this grandchild”. Now that I’m a grandmother giving and receiving a hug from one of our four grands is a natural greeting or goodbye. They are all little now and don’t mind one of grandma’s hugs, but someday…..yes the “too cool days” may happen, but experience tells me those times will quickly pass. How do I know this? I’m witnessing lots of hugs being exchanged from our adult son and his dad….I’m thankful his “too cool” days are behind him.

I’m very grateful for hugs, for parents who taught us to hug, for a Heavenly Father who gave us the ability to wrap our arms around loved ones…to say hello…goodbye…to grieve and cry….to laugh and celebrate. Life brings many situations bathed in a rollercoaster of emotions. Hugs help to keep us grounded. Big or small, hugs make shaky times less scary. They allow us deep connection, too, when words escape us. Best of all, they’re free. Are you a hugger? Do you enjoy to be hugged? 

These are my thoughts today as I sit here remembering all the times I’ve been in a warm embrace…missing, too, some of my best huggers growing up…can’t wait to be reunited with them in Heaven. There’s some great huggers waiting for me!

Some common things in life make me chuckle. They are things maybe you’ve never given a second thought to when you see them every day. Let me assure you. You’ve seen them. They are in small towns, large cities, along  rural roads and speeding highways. What are these mysterious “things”? Signs. They come in all sizes, some new and many worn from standing through every change of the seasons for years on end (no pun intended) And they never cease to make me chuckle. Why? Let me list a few that are among my favorites:

• Food Like Mom Makes
• Cleanest Bathrooms in Town
• Cold Beer
• Hot Coffee
• Best Food Around
• Voted America’s Best _____(fill in the blank)
• Clean Rooms
• My Kid Can Beat Up Your Honor Student

Do you see why I chuckle every time I encounter one of these signs in my travels? Think about it. 

• What if your mom was a horrible cook? What memories does that sign conjure up on your taste buds?
• Who would advertise “our bathrooms are the filthiest in town–come on in to relieve yourself! A few spiders in cobwebs and dirty towels on the floor never bothered anyone.
• Enjoy a warm beer! Well, maybe in another country where that’s the custom but last I checked most Americans want their brew to be cold and frothy.
• Ok, on Hot Coffee, I’ll relax a bit. With the onset of cold brews available at fast food restaurants and retail stores, I admit I actually enjoy a cold one occasionally (I still want my beer cold though)
• How does the restaurant owner know his food is the BEST around? Did he/she hold a contest to find out? Isn’t this the theme of Diners, Drive-ins and Dives?
• Voted America’s Best = there are SO many possible answers. Again, who’s holding all these contests and why haven’t I seen where to enter? I like winning a prize. Sheesh.
• Who would advertise Dirty Rooms? Goodness, I know from personal experience that I HAVE stayed in places where I questioned how thorough the housekeeping staff performed their duties. When I arrive at a hotel I DO expect a clean room and I appreciate the folks who make that possible for me.
• Ok–other than a fair fight, when did it become remotely humorous to brag that your kid is a bully, one who can beat up another student. Is this bumper sticker an indication of the slippery slope of bad parenting that has slid into some of our homes?

Ya. I’ve been wanting to write about signs for a while. Quite honestly, every time I saw one I said it out loud to my husband. ‘I NEED TO BLOG ABOUT THE IRONY OF SIGNS”. So, today I have done that.  I know that as soon as I click publish on my site, I’ll think of another sign that makes me chuckle. Every time. Seriously, it never gets old, seeing these well intentioned signs advertising what to me is common sense. Oh well, our world needs more laughter, less dirty rooms and more opportunities to vote for who’s got the best __________ (fill in the blank).

In case you’re wondering, my mom WAS an excellent cook so when I see Food Like Mom Makes…I get a bit sentimental. It’s a memory that tickles my taste buds and fills me with a warm feeling all over. Kinda like enjoying a cup of good, hot black coffee. On a clean table of course!

According to my oldest brother David, I took my “first” steps while our dad was installing hardwood flooring in the living room of our family home he built in 1954. David said I was sitting on a stack of the hardwood, stood up, walked from the living room through the kitchen and around through my bedroom back to where dad was working, and he added, I didn’t stop….my first steps were successful and now some 67 years later my feet and legs, though aged, still keep me going whether I’m doing errands or out for a long walk or run.

Besides taking my first steps walking, I’ve had other firsts in my life. Many are the same as most people–first day of school *first time riding a two wheeled bike *first time driving a car *first kiss *first job *first loss…..you see the pattern. Life is full of many “firsts” and all begin with “a next step…”

Last week one of my devotional readings asked this very question: What is the next step you need to take? The question followed a teaching on Psalm 37:5: “Commit your way to the Lord; trust in Him and He will do this….” As I listened to the teaching I honed in when Brad took time to instruct the listener on the Hebrew word for commit. As he illustrated walking through a hiking trail in a wooded area, he laid out a word picture of being on a path and how Christians often think we are walking our own path, asking God to bless where we are treading. But, in Hebrew, the definition of “commit” is more, it’s actually asking God to “rollover” on the path we are on, thus joining WITH Him as we move along. Hearing that teaching was a lightbulb moment for me! In my years of being a Christian I had never heard this definition of the word commit. Furthermore, I’ve been quite satisfied to lay out my own desires or directions to take–sometimes selfishly or in pride–and asked God to bless my steps! I realize now how foolish my behavior has been.

I’m not sitting on a stack of hardwood flooring right now. Rather, I’m sitting at a crossroads in life. More specifically, it involves leadership, mentoring, learning, teaching….last week I wrote about my good friend, Tom, who died. He was not only a pastor in our church, he was the ministry leader of our Celebrate Recovery Ministry and I was his assistant. He was mentoring me. With the loss of Tom, I’ve been advanced to his role. Although I know much of the nuts and bolts to run the weekly meetings, there is a lot of behind the scenes stuff I hadn’t quite mastered. There are aspects to being a leader I’ve not tapped into, the path that I thought was fairly easy with no bumps or obstacles has suddenly changed to one that may be a winding trail, one that will require me to commit, trust…in Him and not in myself. There may even be some schooling I pursue–not by requirement but out of personal satisfaction in order to lead well. 

Tom leaves a big void. The path he walked is not my path although both are under that “rollover” protection and guidance of the God we both serve. Tom’s shoes are bigger than mine but not superior because in humility we both strived to lead others well, always pointing folks to Jesus, taking all focus off us. Yes, my feet are on my path. My eyes are on Jesus. As I make my strides along my path, establishing a healthy pace, every once in a while I will look up, down, or around me to make sure I’m staying the intended course. I’m excited. I’m scared. I’m confident. I’m apprehensive. I’m no longer a tiny girl sitting on a stack of wood, I’m older, and having found a “new” path to explore, I’m taking my “first steps”….

Sunday was not a day that I wanted to come around. Today is not a day that I wanted to write. Today is not the time that I want to talk about–just yet–all that he meant to me. Today is not a desire to begin living Sundays and Tuesdays without him–or any other day of the week encounter that may occur. Today is not my best day, but it is reality for me and for my dear friend Tom. Tom’s reality is that at 3:55 pm on Sunday, August 15 he entered the glorious place we Christians call heaven. My reality is that I miss him, I will miss him, and my life will eventually be redefined–already has–with his absence.

Tom was a friend, one of my dear pastors for the past few years, and a mentor in ministry. He loved Jesus and wasn’t afraid to tell anyone he met of his love and devotion to a savior who rescued him from the gutter of life (recommended reading: “From Gutter to Grace” by Pastor Thomas Tarpley, available on Amazon) I will let his book give justice and testimony to the man that I had grown to know and love, especially while serving alongside him in Celebrate Recovery.

Who else is Tom? If you had a chance to hear about how he came to Fowlerville MI you’d love the story. He was a black man, serving in the United Methodist Church, and Fowlerville’s UMC needed a pastor. They called Tom to the position. “Do you know who you’re talking to?!” he asked his superintendent. He was moved to a predominantly white community to serve in a church made up of all white folks. In his own words “it was the best assignment I ever had”.

After officially retiring from the UMC, Tom’s plans to move south were interrupted by God and he agreed to join the staff of Fowlerville United Brethren in Christ as its care pastor and quickly took the overseer and lead position in Celebrate Recovery, a 12 step program for adults. Tom was familiar with the 12 steps. Up until his death, he had celebrated 32 years of sobriety from alcohol and drugs. Everywhere he went he was usually wearing his CR shirt and telling people about two things–Jesus and CR!

I met Tom when he was the lead pastor at the Fowlerville UMC. I’d heard him preach at community worship services and loved the messages he gave, powerful scripture based words that flowed from his barrel chest, sometimes with or without a microphone. Tom never let an obstacle stop him from preaching. In fact, the last time he was scheduled to preach at our church he woke that morning to broken dentures. “Never mind” he messaged our operations manager..”if I have to super glue them together, I will. Guess ‘someone’ doesn’t want me giving this message this morning…” that was Tom. He was unstoppable, stubborn, a man doing kingdom work up until age 78. You see, part of Tom’s philosophy in life is that a Christian never retires. There’s always something to do and someone who needs to hear about Jesus’ saving grace. One of his best sermon lines was “if you were the only person alive on earth, Jesus would have died for you.”

Tom’s eulogy and other accomplishments will be honored at his funeral service. I’ll leave that obligation to those serving him that day. He didn’t like being the center of attention even though he easily took command of situations needing a leader. He LOVED worshipping God, singing at the top of his lungs and clapping his hands while shuffling and swaying to the music. I’m most certain he’s doing that right now, from the moment he arrived. Hopefully the heavenly worship band will play and sing “No Longer Slaves” (Zach Williams).

Tom attended the National Celebrate Recovery Summit in July 2020. He came home and developed a cold which turned out to be symptoms of the covid virus which escalated to pneumonia. The sickness was too much for his body and in the hospital on Sunday, after being there a week, he died. Wishing I could have been a fly on the wall, I like to believe that before heavy sedation was necessary to give him the rest his weary body needed, those doctors and nurses attending him heard about Jesus. Somehow I hope they knew that they had one of God’s mighty warriors in their care.

My last conversation with Tom was on the very subject matter of covid. We both agreed that “if I (meaning himself or me) get covid and die, I win, I’m with Jesus. If I get covid and live, I win, I’m with family and friends until my time comes.” We had that conversation, bathed in complete confidence and peace because of our shared faith and hope in Christ and a home prepared for us, for all believers in Heaven.

So, today, is not a favorite day but it remains a good day. Ministry is moving forward and yes, without our beloved brother and leader with us, but going forth. We–I–am doing so because it’s the right thing to do as I remember Tom. It’s what Tom preached and what he would insist upon.

I’m not ready to totally use all “past presence” grammar when referring to my friend. In fact, it I’m totally honest, I don’t have to. You see, Tom’s body has died. It served its purpose. Tom’s soul and spirit are now in Heaven where he IS living for eternity. So, I can smile and refer to Tom as “he is……” not “he was….” He WAS a lot of good things, flaws and all that drove him to substance abuse at a very young age and eventually drew him into a saving relationship with Jesus Christ and a journey of healing with his 12 step programs. Some writers might say “if you want to know more about this man Tom”. Nope! Tom would have THiS friend and writer say “if you want to know more about this man JESUS, let’s talk.” Better yet. Find a Bible believing church this Sunday and go! If you’re trapped in addiction, deep hurt or nasty habits, find a Celebrate Recovery. I guarantee you that both places may have its band play and sing “No Longer Slaves”. If they do, you’ll soon be swaying, clapping and singing the very words that exemplifies my friend, Tom.

This morning I chose to read Psalm 3. For what reason? Well, quite often I like to read the Psalm that corresponds to the date on the calendar. Pretty simple approach isn’t it? I like to think so, but always at no surprise to me, SOMETHING from the reading will hit me with an “aha!” Today was no exception.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, 2020 was dominated by Covid 19 and here we are in August 2021 and every news outlet or social media platform is STILL making this virus the headliner in current events. Admittedly, I am over the depth of concern covid has imposed on me. I am not in control regarding its spread or conflicting opinions at every turn in TV, radio, social media reporting. I’m saddened how family and friendships have been torn apart or destroyed due to ONE virus. I could easily compare other death tolls that have accrued due to other illnesses, but I won’t. I could research and tell you how many children have been aborted out of selfishness, but I won’t. I could also look into deaths caused by drunks, people texting while driving, but I won’t. Why? When 2020 brought lockdowns and masks, arguments and unknowns, I turned and remained steadfast with my eyes fixed on Jesus whether it meant reading Scripture or talking to Him audibly or through my journaling. In 2020 I devoured a psalm a day, found one or two truths in each one and shared them on my social media page. By doing so, I built up my hope and confidence in Him as well as finding out what I was sharing brought strength, courage, and renewed hope to others. I couldn’t ask for anything more, other than bringing new people into God’s Kingdom, but that’s an entirely different blog post.

So, back to Psalm 3 and today. The verse that I gleaned in today’s quiet reading was 6: “I will not fear the tens of thousands drawn up against me on every side.” How does that apply to me, having survived 2020 and finding myself midway through 2021? 

With each directive, I’ve done the mask thing. With each confirmed exposure, I’ve done the quarantine thing. I’ve washed my hands. I’ve taken my temperature when requested.  I’ve been socially distanced. I’ve used the disinfected shopping carts. I’ve stayed home if I didn’t feel well. What I didn’t do was take fear off the clothes hanger in a closet filled of unknowns and wear it. Fear is one of Satan’s primary weapons to keep a Christian from fully trusting in God; it’s a garment he carefully crafts hoping people will crave to wear and make a permanent part of their wardrobe. Fear is a state of mind that is easily composed in the minds of the wrong people who accessorize it with control and manipulation. It’s a driving force among throngs of people as evidenced by daily news reports driven by statistics and experts who sit among the “tens of thousands” trying to make me feel afraid. I’m not doing it. I will be smart, but more so I will be wise. I say I will listen to directives, but I will question. My questions won’t be directed at a person but rather addressed to God in prayer. I will pursue health. I will pursue being informed. I will pursue God. In that order? No. I will chase after God FIRST. Everything else I need will fall in line behind Him. 

If anything, 2020 was a year that drove me to ask more questions. Evaluate priorities. Take comfort in quiet times and unknown times, to see the folly of men and women trying to orchestrate continued chaos tied to a virus. While I certainly don’t ignore anyone’s  grief due to deaths connected to this illness, I am offering my voice as one contrary to the effects of living in constant fear and hardship. My bottom line in 2020 and to this day is a montra I’ve coined: “If I get covid and die, I win, for I am with Jesus. If I get covid and live, I win, for I am here with family and friends until He DOES call me Home.” Whatever scenario, you won’t catch me wearing a garment of fear. You’ll see me living each day to its fullest. I’ll continue going about my day to day activities, my weekly commitments, and being out in my community shopping or joining in a social event. My TV and radio will be turned off for the majority of my waking hours; the pages of my Bible will remain open, especially to the Psalms. “I lie down and sleep; I wake again because the Lord sustains me”. (verse 3) Who or what is sustaining you? Is it time to update your wardrobe? 

She was my best friend, the kind that no matter how much time is spent together whether it be a day or a week, it’s not enough. It’s also the kind of friendship based on similar core values, the ability to keep precious secrets or share laughter over a silly memory or inside joke. It’s the kind of friendship that spans 50 years that include awkward teen years, leaving home, getting married, having children and suffering losses. 

We met in sixth grade but really didn’t hang out with one another or necessarily “do” things together since it was a fair walking distance between our childhood homes. Our friendship didn’t truly form and blossom until 8th grade when I was told Luann was home one summer day, acting all bored when her mother suggested that she “call that nice Susan Jewell…..” Her phone call changed the direction for both of us and little did I know, or her for that matter, the beautiful path we’d walk on for many years, only to become broken when we turned 40, repaired in our 60s and finally severed in 2019.

When I look back over our 50 years of friendship, I’m amazed at the experiences we shared. A few are:

• Being confirmed together in our Lutheran faith at the time
• Singing in the church choirs
• Attending church youth group together which included a trip to New York City when we were in high school
• Participating in Honors Choir in high school
• Participating in high school musical productions
• Double dating with our boyfriends (she married her high school sweetheart and so did I)
• Standing up for each other’s wedding (she did twice for me, more on that in another blog session)
• Writing and calling each other when she moved to Illinois for her husband to attend law school; I flew for my first time to visit them in June 1975
• Visiting them for Thanksgiving in their first home in Illinois after the birth of their first child
• My surprise visit to her in Peoria when she turned 40; I took our daughter with me who was 10 at the time, the same age as Luann’s daughter
• The loss of her parents, then eventually mine
• Short vacations at their family cottage on Lake Huron in our 60s
• Hard conversations in person….social media

Over the course of our early years of friendship, when I described our relationship to people I used to brag that “we never have had a fight or argue” and that really was true. Luann and I had SO much in common and her bubbly sweet personality didn’t give way to anger or being easily offended. Her infectious smile lit up her face and made the sparkle in her blue eyes shine bright as she giggled at almost everything that was said. Looking back, I think it was her defense mechanism to avoid confrontation. For her, I think people pleasing was far easier than taking a stand that might cause someone to feel uncomfortable. I don’t say this to be critical, rather I’m able to make a valid judgement based on my own observations and learning about behavior and boundaries in healthy relationships.

During the visit to surprise her for her 40th birthday, our relationship was strained followed by a brokenness that lasted for six months. When I returned home from that visit, I wrote to her apologizing for my part in a conversation that caused us to argue and not agree. It was six months until I heard from her in a letter back to me. She assured me that all was well after much self examination, but truth is, it was not. Phone calls and letters back and forth ceased. The only time I heard from her was a birthday card, Christmas and Easter cards. The years when our children were growing through middle and high school were pretty much silent. 

I can fast forward to the early 2000s and fondly recall one of our trips north to Mackinac Island. We had an out of state friend visiting that week and we were taking her to enjoy some island time with us. To enhance our drive, we drove the shoreline of Lake Huron which took us past the very driveway to Luann’s cottage. As we made our way north on the two lane highway, I kept my eyes peeled for their cottage sign at the end of the road. I was thrilled when I saw it, proof the original sign still stood boasting a new paint job to make its appearance bright and inviting. Seeing the sign stirred countless memories inside of me and I knew at once what I would do when I returned home…I would write to her. I would keep it simple and not bring up anything from our stormy or silent past. My card merely told her that we had driven past their cottage property and seeing it caused me to smile and think of her. My card was dropped in the mail and I waited for any response that may or may not happen.

Shortly after my brief note to her, I received a card from her. What a joy it was to open and read! She thanked me for writing to her and went on to give me several dates that they’d be at the cottage and “would love to see you and have you spend some time with us”….A trip to Mackinac Island opened the door for us to reestablish and explore our friendship. Visits with her happened for a few days each summer for the next three years. When her daughter was married, we made the trip to their home in Peoria and celebrated with their family and friends. We had occasions to have them in our home for short visits and I was thrilled when she and Brian made the long drive up to attend my father’s funeral.  

So, mending took place over those three years. I was able to ask for forgiveness and make my amends for past hurts, all of which were given with assurance “that all is good”. Walks along the lake shoreline made for perfect settings to dig deep below mere surface talk. Those conservations showed me how different our life paths had taken us, while still reflecting many similarities with a few red flags waving in our midst. I used those red flags to steer clear of creating anything that would cause another fracture to our friendship.

Enter social media. I’m not going to disclose exactly what happened other than to say that Facebook can be a good thing or it can be bad. For our friendship, at first it was perfect. It was an easy format to share photos of our families, post silly comments or mainly stay in touch. Our major turning point happened in 2016 and for the next three years teetered until we finally bottomed out in 2019 when Luann and Brian chose to sever our friendship. I refer to it as being “divorced” because of how it was done and the hurtful words behind their reasoning. When they both communicated with me separately, in written form, I allowed myself time to ponder and pray for a proper response. I did so in my own letter back to Luann and a separate letter to Brian. I made amends for any wrong on MY part and did not make any accusatory statements. My words were rooted from two sources 1) my own feelings and thoughts and 2) scripture to back or explain my core beliefs that both of them had challenged.

This was a difficult entry to write. Why? Luann was the only 50 plus years friendship I’ve had. We won’t grow old together. I’m not able to see her grandchildren grow. There’s no more opportunities for seeing photos. There are no more long walks on the shoreline of Lake Huron. No more cards on birthdays, Christmas and Easter. The death of our friendship was not of my choosing; I am living with the consequences of two people who have each embraced differing ideologies and Christian doctrine. I am content with my choices, my beliefs. I miss our friendship, I do not miss the red flags that warned me “don’t drift in and challenge that thought…” I can still see and remember those red flags that waved between us as we walked and talked along the shoreline. Now they serve as prayer reminders for me to lift my “old friends” for God’s will in their lives….and mine….whatever He has planned for us as we push towards our 70s, so be it. I am at peace. If God allows the red flags to be replaced by white ones, I am here living and waiting for His perfect will to be accomplished. 

As I continue to reflect on my 20+ years in the banking industry, I would be remiss if I didn’t write about some memorable individuals and the experiences I got from meeting them, interacting in conversations or merely observing. While there are many to choose from, I hope to share some of my favorites and if their personalities and the things I share may seem odd or cause discomfort, it’s only my attempt to present truthful observations with no attempt to ridicule, put down, or lay down any judgment whatsoever. On the contrary, growing up in a very loving what I thought was “normal” family, my time with the bank allowed folks from all different walks of life walk into my idealistic world and shake it up in a good way. Here we go!

Betty:  Betty was mentally ill and for most of her adult life lived in a secure home or facility. During one of her times being on the “outside” she had opened a savings account with us (before my time) By the time I met her over the telephone, she was under lock and key so to speak, but with phone privileges. With one of her allowable phone calls, she called the office I was working in as an administrative assistant. She wanted to speak with Mr. Knapp who was our vice president at the time. She wanted him to send her a check to close her account, she wanted her millions that were on deposit. Betty remembered that she had opened an account and indeed it was with Mr. Knapp back in the founding days and weeks of the bank’s start. But, Betty didn’t have millions. She had $1 in the account. 

I don’t remember how he or I resolved her “command” to send her the money. I remember feeling sad for her and learning how to tactfully get her off the phone with repetitive questions leading to nowhere but frustration for both of us.

A Man & His Dog:  When I met this man I was working in a small office along with the bank president, vice president, and Doris, another administrative assistant. When this man came through our door with his dog, we two women were alone. Asking him how we could help led to his demands to “keep an eye on his injured dog” (a lab) until his return. He explained that the dog had been hit by a car at the intersection that the bank sat on, he was going to a pool hall to shoot some games and would return for the animal. He was adamant that we not call a vet or the police regarding the dog, that he fully expected the dog to be with us upon his return and to ensure our obedience he pulled a bullet from his pocket, placed it on the corner of Doris’ desk, and walked out. Once he made it out the door we turned to look at each other with “what the heck just happened!” expressions on our faces.

Doris didn’t waste any time calling one of the guys across the hallway to the bank lobby and I didn’t waste any time telling her I was allergic to dogs! I wish I could remember clearly how we dealt with the poor injured dog, I don’t. I do remember the man returning to the bank after a few hours and going up verbally against Ken, our branch manager. Ken had called the police who did take the dog away and the bullet was in Ken’s possession as they faced off discussing “who did the most wrong”. Once again, I got to witness the unfortunate effects of mental illness.

Mrs. W.: Her first name was Louise and she was well into her 80s when I met her. At first I fell in love with this older, sweet lady who had misplaced her checkbook.” No problem Mrs. W–I can close your account and open another, order you new checks.” Do that at least four times over the span of a few months and realize something “more” is going on other than an occasional misplacement of a checkbook. This dear woman, who was widowed and no immediate family to my knowledge, was in the early stages of dementia. My concerns grew but I was tied as to how I could truly help her. Out of appreciation for my continued assistance she even invited me to her small apartment for dinner and I went, even though bank policy may have dictated that I not. But going I went, ate a simply prepared meal with her followed promptly by a social studies lesson complete with a wall map and pointer in her hand as she “taught me a lesson”…one that I now know was in the deepest remotest part of her memories, far away from the present which most likely  included the whereabouts of her checkbook.

I knew Mrs. W was Lutheran and called her church to speak with her pastor, asking for help. I truly don’t remember what happened with her after that phone call. I think she was pointed in the direction for the much needed assistance required for a person suffering with dementia. On the evening she taught me the geography lesson, I’m sure it brought her great purpose and joy. Looking back, Mrs. W’s interactions with me  would later help me begin to recognize the lapse in my own father’s memory and cognitive thought processes. Dementia is pure hell….

A Widow: I met this beautiful 50ish aged woman at our administrative offices. Though we didn’t serve a lot of foot traffic, she had come to our location in need of help. Her predicament was related to her checking account which meant I was the person to help her. I got her seated at a small table where she proceeded to lay out several monthly checking account statements and her checkbook. “I don’t know how to write a check. I don’t know how to pay my bills. My husband did all the money stuff and he died”. I sat there stunned. My mind went different directions. How do I help her? How do I fix this and get back to my stack of work? How do I teach her? Oh my goodness, MY mom pays all the bills too and does the money stuff too!…..

I took her through basic check writing skills, showed her how to balance her account….started her out fresh with the amount she had on hand on that day.

She asked me, “Can I come in here and see you when I need to pay bills? Would you help me do that?

Oh goodness, I thought to myself. I can’t do that! We aren’t in the business of THAT kind of personal banking!  I couldn’t tell her my thoughts. Instead I asked her if she had family. 

“Some,” she said. I inquired if she had anyone she trusted that would help her in the future until she felt comfortable.  “My pastor, I trust him”.  I encouraged her to talk to him about helping her.  What happened next just before she got up to leave caught me off guard but has stuck with me forever; this kind woman didn’t hesitate or skip a beat, she bowed her head and prayed “Lord, thank you for Susan. Thank you for her kindness, for helping me….” Though I don’t remember the exact prayer, those expressions of gratefulness ring inside me to this day, echoing lessons of witnessing humility and thankfulness from one stranger to another. More importantly, from one Christ follower to another.

Floyd:  This older-grumpy-rather unassuming-man had a way of making his presence known whenever he entered the bank regardless if it was the posh administrative building or a branch location. He owned a meat market, had some pretty decent wealth and was someone that the commercial lenders and bank president pursued and wooed to gain his business. After many lunches and cold calls to his market, they succeeded. By the time his accounts were landed I was working in our branch location on Bay Road which was the closest for him to conduct deposits to his accounts. Floyd had no polish. What he lacked in manners and appearance he made up with loud course language which he used for shock value. 

I was working at my teller window when he came in one afternoon. He was garbed with his butcher apron that was covered in blood. As he strolled in holding his deposit bags, he began yelling “look at the GD people working here….no wonder I pay so much in F—-g service fees, gotta pay all these GD people.” By mid outburst our branch manger Elaine was out of her office scurrying around like a mother hen trying to calm Floyd and submit to his need for big shot status..  He loved seeing the frenzy he could create and she (unknowingly?) gave him great satisfaction. Me? Not so much. I kept working while I watched and listened, much to my amusement. Whose window did Floyd choose to plop his deposit bags down? You guessed it. Mine. I looked up, greeted him “Hi, Floyd. How are you doing?” 

“You!” he said. “Why aren’t you all in a tizzy with me coming here?” (He knew full well how and why his behavior affected people) I stayed calm, got a bit bold (could I get fired for what I was about to say?) “Well,, Floyd, I’m not in a tizzy because it’s you. You’re one of our customers and I treat everyone the same.” He quieted down, stepped back a little and said “I like you. Why can’t all the other F—-g people be like you? You don’t get flustered.”

No, Floyd, I don’t get flustered, I thought quietly to myself.  In the back of my mind as I was smiling at you, speaking with you and processing your deposit, I was thinking that even though you have lots of money and bank personnel thought you were important, you are no more important or deserving of special treatment that I’d give and continue to give to customers regardless what  their checking or savings balances reflected. And being a willing laughing or scared audience member to your filthy mouth and crude treatment of women was not a game I signed up to play. Yup, Floyd, a smile and ignoring your childish needs was all I needed that day to learn a lesson of respect, kindness, and remaining calm when up against a foolish foul mouthed person.

Mental Illness. Dementia. Fear. A Crude Fool. These few are but several of the customer relationships I encountered. Each conversation revealed things I  would learn about human nature and the circumstances that come with life. They are lessons that no one except fate itself could have written. They are memories embedded in my mind, ones that helped me to broaden my horizons and gain understanding into the hurts and needs of others. Those lessons I gained then continue to offer me insight as I wake each day wondering who will cross my path today….

Obtaining a position with First State Bank in June of 1972 was my first full time place of employment, one that spanned a good 20 years plus with a short break in between. I certainly cannot write about all the memories I made during that time, however, I’d like to highlight the ones that helped shape me into the person that I am today, good and bad if I’m being honest.

During the first four years of working in the installment loan department I aged from a mere 18 to a 21 year old. I really thought I had my life figured out, plans made for my future and knew what I wanted to make me feel happy and satisfied. I was meeting many new people as co-workers and customers, all who stretched and challenged my idealistic-good girl-naive mindset as new circumstances arose to make me rethink or stand firm in my convictions. I’ll do my best to describe situations or a person that made an impact on me.

Ron: He was a co-worker in the installment loan department. The only other person in the office was our supervisor, Russ. They both wrote loans for our customers and my duties were as receptionist and performing clerical work. Ron was not a trustworthy young man. At age 25 or so he was still living at home, had a wild imagination that produced lies and he had no boundaries concerning women. Ron was always on the prowl looking for someone to take on a date. Even though I had a boyfriend at the time, he didn’t care. His unwelcome advances towards me always went ignored on his end. It was an ordinary work day for us, Russ was out of his office, I was seated at my desk working and Ron grabbed a sheet of paper, wadded it into a ball and walked over to me and threw it away in my wastebasket, grabbing the back of my right calf as he stood up. “If you ever do that again,” I said, “you’ll be singing soprano”. He didn’t laugh, but he did try to back peddle from his obvious attempt to harass me. I continued working, he returned to his desk and I never told Russ or anyone else in supervisory roles about the incident. In 1972 sexual harassment incidents were not on anyone’s radar–at least not mine. I’d never been warned about them, the subject was not discussed at home or school. My response to him came from deep instinct and the knowledge “women deserve to be treated with dignity” (thanks Dad)

Geraldine: This spunky tall slender black woman was one of our most beneficial tellers in the main lobby of the bank. She knew all the “street” people, knew how to chat about their business, their lingo, their “situations”. I think Gerry was one of the first black women I’d met, other than several co-worker friends my dad had introduced me to in younger years. Gerry was married and had two boys. Her husband was not the most likeable or reliable man according to her gut wrenching belly laughing stories told over lunch. The way she described Curits was that the ‘family dog don’t like the man!’ Her reputation with the “looked down upon”, the “questionables” of Downtown Saginaw was visible by the sometimes long line of customers waiting for her to conduct their banking needs, usually cashing a check. As I said, she knew her customers and the trust they put in her was not transferred to other tellers. Often, we’d hear “I can help you over here” answered with “No, I’ll wait for Gerry.”

Debbie: Young, only 17, tall and very pretty, Debbie came to the bank as a high school co-op student to work in the installment loan department in 1975. The department had grown to our supervisor, myself, along with two lenders and two collections officers. Our afternoon was interrupted briefly when a male customer came to the work counter asking to have the lien statement on the title to his car terminated since he had paid the loan in full. I took care of the transaction, thanked him for his business and told him to “keep us in mind when you need to finance something in the future”. After he had left the office Debbie asked me “how can you be nice to n——-s?” I was shocked. I had never experienced such a blatant example of hate based on skin color. I was furious but maintained a calm to tell her “that man is our customer. This bank has MANY customers who are black, you better get used to it because it doesn’t really matter”. I think this was the turning point in our relationship where very few conservations took place between us. 

Steve: When I met Steve I was in my late 20s, married with our first child as a baby. By now the bank had been purchased by National Bank of Detroit (NBD) and administrative offices were relocated from Downtown Saginaw to a beautiful building along the river. No longer part of the loan department, I was now an administrative assistant for an executive vice president, Elwood. Steve was an assistant vice president in charge of the installment loan department. With the exception of the upper executives, our work stations were cubicles neatly arranged on the work floor. I was struggling with some work relationships and had an opportunity to discuss the matter with Steve. Like a gentle father reassuring a child, I remember that he placed his hands gently on my shoulders, looked me square in the eyes and told me “Not everyone is going to like you and that’s ok.” It’s now about 40 years later and I can still recall how his brief instruction with me changed my mindset and allowed some freedom to be enjoyed. 

Doc: I met Doc through the mail (no, not a dating site!) Doc was in a Michigan prison where he was earning money. Because his mother lived in Saginaw, he set up a savings account for the purpose to mail checks for deposit. I opened his account. I got the checks he mailed. I made the deposit and returned the receipt to him. This back and forth went on for several months until my phone rang. “Sue, this is (our receptionist); I have a Doc U. here asking to see you.” I hung up my phone and waited for a moment. Doc? To see me? Isn’t he in prison? These were the questions that flooded my head as I made my way to the front reception counter where I was greeted by a young, tall slender black man. I escorted Doc to a small conference room where we’d have privacy, shut the door and we both sat down. I sucked in a deep breath and boldy (with some embarrassment) asked “Doc! What are you doing here!?” He knew without a doubt all what I was thinking: shock *fear *What’s going to happen now?….After polite small talk Doc broke into the chase to tell me “thank you–thank you for being so kind to me while I was in prison.” Honestly, now I was shocked again, because taking care of his banking needs, though out of the ordinary for me, was all that I knew to do regardless of the “who” or “what” that came with the person’s name. Thanks again, Dad. (By the way, I DID ask and he DID tell me…Doc was incarcerated for breaking and entering; he told me he learned his lesson…..I pray he did and is doing well in life. I never saw or heard from him after our face to face meeting.

Elwood: The Bear. That’s what everyone called him. He was 6’4”, well over 250 pounds, with a voice that shook the building whether he was angry or laughing. As rough as he could be when supervising branch offices or commercial lenders and their business clients, his gentleness came in a close second for top personality traits. He was well liked and he was my “boss” as we called supervisors back then for the remaining years of my employment with NBD. I loved working for him. He had a charismatic way about him, one that allowed me to arrive to work early, get us each a cup of coffee from the machine (always his two quarters!) and sit in his office for about 15 minutes chatting up the start of our day….family….what needed to be worked on for the day or plan a future meeting. No two days working for him were the same thus boredom is not a word I’d use in the same sentence with his name. 

There are SO many good memories I have working for and alongside El. He never made me feel “less than” since I was younger, a woman, a mom, his assistant. On the contrary, I was always treated with respect, was given so many opportunities to serve above my normal job description and education background, to the point of being placed in management training upon the return from giving birth to our second child. (those months are another entry) 

I left NBD in December 1988. I went from full-time management trainee to full-time wife and mom (more future entries) Leaving NBD was a very bittersweet departure in my life. When I made trips back to Saginaw from our present home. I always made a point to visit my former co-workers. At first, it felt very comfortable to return. Slowly, faces changed. New people were now in those cubicles. A few “old timers” still lingered. Along with the fading of faces, I lost track of “The Bear” after he retired, became seriously ill, and much to my sadness, learned he passed away several years ago. His later years were not all healthy physically or emotionally. As I fondly recall all that he taught me as a “boss” who also became a good friend, I hope he knew that even among his trials, he was of great value which was transferred to me by our rare working relationship with each other. 

The years 1972 to 1988 at First State Bank, then to National Bank of Detroit, are filled with countless memories. Perhaps I will expand and write about more of those in the coming weeks. For today, as I described Ron, Debbie, Steve, Elwood please know this. Times change. Times develop. Times allow us to reflect and learn. Sexual harassment is no longer under the radar. Using the “N” word is STILL forbidden in my vocabulary and I’ll call anyone out who uses it….how we form work relationships is under much scrutiny now–I’m MOST certain that a supervisor would be instructed to NEVER place his or her hands gently on someone’s shoulders in order to speak a word of encouragement….I DO wonder if there is any working relationship today that mirrors the integrity, value, worth, and teachable moments I had with “The Bear”….for the sake of all that is good and wholesome, I hope so.

High School Years

One of the first memories that popped into my head quickly as I sat down this morning to write about high school was a warning my older brother Mark gave me: “Never ask an upperclassman for directions if you get lost in the building….” there were tales and laughter associated with misguided freshmen wandering the halls looking for a class during the first few days of school. This beloved high school is shaped like an H and boasts two floors with the choir and band rooms lofting above them in the center of the building along with the cafeteria which also served as a study hall. So, I was smart and heeded my brother’s warning but without asking in return “how will I know who is a senior!?”….I can confess to you I did get turned around one time and was late for a class after my lunch period and a couple times after being on spring or Christmas break I forgot my locker combination. Other than those minor situations, I loved high school. Let me tell you a few reasons why.

As a freshman I continued adding choir as an elective into my schedule. My vocal teacher was Mrs. Leis and she was wonderful! The school had added a girls ensemble to its offerings of girls choir and Honors Choir. I was placed in the ensemble class which meant it was a smaller number of students and there were no boys in the class (they were in Honors Choir) I loved to sing and easily picked up learning the melody of any song; it’s here where I was taught how to read music, acquired the ability to learn intervals audibly along with rhythm, counting, determining what key a song was written in…all the technical aspects of not merely singing. Most importantly we were taught proper breathing techniques for supporting our voices and how to sneak a catch breath for long phrases. Being part of the ensemble was also my first experience “going to vocal competitions”, usually at a school in the Flint area, where vocal students in our area came to perform and be judged for a coveted “1” performance. 

In the summer between my freshman and sophomore year I auditioned with Mrs. Leis to be considered for the Honors Choir. This was my first experience singing alone with her, listening to her play intervals on the piano and telling her the answer for each one, sight reading a portion of music, all so she could determine if I was qualified to be in the school’s prestigious choir which mainly performed acapella–no accompaniment–requiring perfect pitches in it’s four sections, soprano, alto, tenor and bass. My audition went well but I didn’t know until picking up by class schedule just before the start of school if I had “made it in”. I had all summer to wonder. To worry. To anticipate. Imagine my apprehension as I tore the cover off my class schedule. I didn’t look to see what my class load was….my eyes went searching for the choral class I was assigned. And there it was–Honors Choir. I was in! That sophomore year with Mrs. Leis was another amazing year of learning and expanding my love to sing. She made music come alive and she was incredible at forming relationships with us as individuals. She liked a good practical joke and took advantage of playing them whenever possible. She had a habit of swinging her foot with crossed legs as she sat on her stool in front of us. Occasionally her heeled shoe became an unintended projectile, landing somewhere near the front row of us girls in the soprano or alto section. 

Sadly for us kids, she left teaching after my sophomore year in order to return to college and pursue a degree in counseling. Our hearts were broken and we were determined there was no one who could replace her. Mr. Sarri was hired as her replacement and those of us very loyal to Mrs. Leis didn’t accept him for quite some time. In my junior year he took us to a choir festival as was the norm and we received a “2” for our performance…and quickly blamed him for breaking the long held reputation of never getting a rating other than a “1”. But, in my senior year with him, back to festival we went and something powerful happened. In the portion of our sight reading piece for the judges, we got our allowed instructions from Mr. Sarri, performed the number and upon ending stood in utter silence watching the judges making their notes, heads bowed down looking down at their paper. Breaking the silence and the dread surrounding us, one of the judges began to speak. He said “That was a difficult arrangement and you performed it without error. Now, please sing it again for us, but this time, relax and have fun. Enjoy it!” And we did! The real change, the real miracle was our heart change towards Mr. Sarri. He was no longer the “bad guy”. He, indeed, was capable of picking up where Mrs. Leis left us, and my time in the Honors Choir was filled with numerous performances and oh yes–ample “1s” at competition.

Mr. Matlock. Ah, this quirky rather young teacher was one of my favorites. As Mrs. Leis and Mr. Sarri honed my skills for vocals, this man taught me about writing, marketing, journalism, photography. In my senior year I was named as editor of our high school yearbook and Mr. Matlock was our “advisor”. He oversaw our teams that sold advertising for the book, took photos (we had our own darkroom to develop the negatives) , wrote articles about activities, captioned those photos, and built our pages that went to the publisher–all under strict deadlines that were never allowed to be missed. I can still hear him telling us “I don’t care how late we have to stay to meet a deadline. If it’s midnight, we will be here, and I’ll order pizza.” I don’t remember ever having to stay into the late evening hours but we certainly did work after the school day had ended. His discipline and hard work paid off for us; our bright lime green covered yearbook won a national award! I was inducted into the national Quill Society (other than that memory I really don’t know what membership gave me except pride in response to hard work that was not without its challenges.  If memory serves me correctly, I wrote about pubs and how they fit into the culture of their time….we were required to turn in a draft which was returned with red markings where and what to correct for our final submission. I truly don’t recall my final grade but I do know it was a good one, well above a C.

Final exams were part of our senior year, too, and Mrs. Cappells were not for the faint of heart. I was the kind of student who studied, wasn’t sure if my study skills were adequate, always studied up until the moment of picking up my pencil to begin a test. I also was the type of kid that seemed to finish a test first, causing me anxiety if I had rushed…did I answer all the questions correctly? So, when I took her final exam and went out into the hallway as allowed by her upon completion, she followed me out and asked “So,Susan, how do you think you did on the exam?” It was just her and me in the long quiet hall by a set of lockers. “I don’t know Mrs. Cappell. Your tests are pretty hard sometimes.” She assured me that I had most likely done very well and in that moment I felt relief. But more than a peace flooding over me was the sense of a firm, sometimes strict, well seasoned teacher taking an interest in a shy, sometimes fearful girl finding her way through challenging required classes and assignments. Again, I don’t remember my exact grade, but it was well above a C.

Graduation. We got our caps, our gowns, our gold tassel. We rehearsed several times and on the much anticipated evening of commencement over 600 of us filled the chairs that were on the football field. Our parents sat in the bleachers. Our administrators and guest speakers were in front of us on a temporary stage. Our graduation evening was beautiful. There was no rain; the sun shone from the western skies as we listened to each speaker, as we lined up as rehearsed to receive our diploma which actually was only the holder for it. We received our diploma when we returned our rented gown. Walking into the school office to do just that was my last time to enter this huge H shaped two story building that housed so many humorous and serious memories for three years. I was the last of us three kids to graduate high school but not alone to begin pondering “what’s next?” My “what’s next” actually began as I was seated in my chair on the football field. I was anticipating senior lockin that night, hanging out with my boyfriend and other kids…listening as each classmate’s name was announced receiving the “diploma”…actually having a moment of complete fear in the reality that the next morning I was faced with “what will I do now…..” Thankfully, answers came…..that’s another entry. For now, as part of the class of 1971, one of 600 plus kids….more life, more lessons to learn, more challenges to face were waiting around the corner.